“You got it.”
Savich looked around the conference table. “Everyone on track now?”
There were grunts, nods, and groans.
Millie, the CAU secretary, said, “What about Tammy, Dillon? Any sightings? Any word at all yet?”
“Not a thing as yet. It’s only been a day since I spoke to Marilyn Warluski at Quantico. Our people are staying with Tony, Marilyn’s boyfriend, in Bar Harbor. His phone’s covered. If Tammy calls, we’ll hear it all. He’s cooperating.” Savich paused a moment, then shrugged. “It’s frustrating. She’s not in good shape, yet no one’s seen her. Chances are very good that she did indeed murder a pharmacist in Souterville, New Jersey. The other pharmacist checked and said someone had rifled through the supplies. Vicodin, a medication to control moderate pain, and Keflex, an oral antibiotic, a good three or four days’ supply, were missing. Evidently she killed the guy because he refused to give her anything.
“As you know, we alerted police on all islands to Tammy’s possible presence. Now they also know to keep a close eye on doctors and pharmacies, and why.”
Ollie said, sitting forward, his hands clasped, “Look, Savich, she threatened you. I read you the note. She means it. We’ve all been talking about it, and we think you should have some protection. We think Jimmy Maitland should assign you some guards.”
Savich thought about it a minute, then looked down the table to Sherlock. He realized that she was thinking about Tammy finding out where they lived and coming to the house. She was thinking about Sean. He said to Ollie, “I think that’s a great idea. I’ll speak to Mr. Maitland this afternoon. Thanks, Ollie, I really hadn’t thought it through.”
He called a halt, scheduled a meeting with his boss, Jimmy Maitland, within the hour, and kissed Sherlock behind a door. Then he went to his office and punched in Simon’s cell phone.
Simon answered on the third ring. “Yo.”
“Savich here. Is Lily all right? What’s going on?”
“Yes, she’s fine.” Simon then told him about their meeting with Abe Turkle, omitting Lily’s challenge to beat the crap out of Abe. Then he told him about their much shorter meeting in Hemlock Bay with Daddy Frasier. “That old guy’s really something, Savich. The guy hates Lily, you can see it in his eyes, colder than a snake’s, and in his body language. I think he would have threatened her if I hadn’t been there.”
Savich wanted details, and so Simon told him exactly what had happened.
They’d gone to Elcott Frasier’s office because they wanted to get in the old man’s face, scare the bejesus out of him, let him know that everyone was on to him. Since he was the president and big cheese of the Hemlock National Bank, he had the shiny corner office on the second floor, all windows, a panoramic view of both the ocean and the town. Simon had wondered if Frasier would see them. His administrative assistant, Ms. Loralee Carmichael, at least twenty-one years old, and so beautiful it made your teeth ache to look at her, left them to kick up their heels for only twelve minutes, acceptable, Simon decided, since they’d caught the old man off guard and he’d probably want to get himself and his stories together. But Simon was worried about Lily. He’d have given anything to put her on a plane back to Washington, D.C., where she’d be safe. She looked nearly flattened, her face pale and set. If there’d been a bed nearby, he’d have tied her down in it. She moved slowly, but she had that lockjaw determined look, and so he kept his mouth shut.
Elcott Frasier welcomed them into his office, patted Lily’s shoulder, his hand a bit on the heavy side, and said, “Lily, dear. May I say that you don’t look well.”
“Mr. Frasier.” She immediately moved away from him. “Since you’ve already said it, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about it.” She gave him a smile as cold as his own. “This is Mr. Russo. He’s a dealer of art. He’s the one who verified that four of my Sarah Elliott paintings are forgeries.”
Elcott Frasier nodded to Simon and motioned to them to be seated. “Well, this comes as quite a surprise. You say you’re an art dealer, Mr. Russo. I don’t know many art dealers who can spot forgeries. Are you quite sure about this?”
“I’m not exactly an art dealer, Mr. Frasier, as in running a gallery. I’m more a dealer/broker. I bring buyers and sellers together. Occasionally I track down forgeries and return them to their rightful owners. Since I own a Sarah Elliott and know her work intimately, I was able to spot the fakes among the eight paintings that Lily owns, particularly since I knew which four had been forged.”